The Vault of Bones (38 page)

Chapter Twenty-Seven

There was a little space below decks, away from where the men slept and not too near the bilges, a nook surrounded by barrels and coils of rope, and there we made a bed for the Captain. There he lay for a long day and night, attended by Michael Scot and by the Dominicans who, after they had overcome their distress at his terrible state, became quite transported with joy. They knelt at his side, deep in prayer, while I watched from the shadows. I hoped the Captain would not wake and find them there, for the sight of two black-swathed agents of the Inquisition hunched over him like ravens might well finish what Nicholas Querini had begun. Michael had found tincture of poppy in the barber's physic chest, and he did not wake, even when we cleaned his wounds with sea-water - a measure Michael insisted upon, for the salve which the barber wished to use smelled like a mouse drowned and rotted in piss-thinned pine tar - and wrapped them in clean linen. He had been scourged, I guessed; beaten and kicked, and hung up by his wrists, for there were rope burns there and his elbows were swollen.

‘I fear for him’ said Michael simply, after the Captains wounds had been bandaged to his satisfaction. 'He is not young.'

I had never thought of that before. But Captain de Montalhac must be close to his fiftieth year, I supposed. He was not old, I told myself, but no, perhaps not young after all. I kept my vigil beyond the edge of the lantern light, wrapped tightly in my own thoughts, for a day and a night, and into the next day. At some point, Letice came to huddle with me, and tried to comfort me with soft words, but I could not be companionable, and so she left again. The Captain had started a fever, and Michael had rifled the barbers chest while the poor fellow looked on in horror, measuring out powders and essences, and dosing his patient first with one mixture, then another; and then, when nothing seemed to take effect, he joined the brothers in prayer. When I saw that Michael Scot himself had resigned himself to the Captain's death, and that my master was going to die in an airless hold amongst cargo and bilgewater, I called Michael aside and asked that the Captain be taken up on deck, for I knew that he would wish to die under the sky, in the salt air, and not in this hole. I thought he would protest, but instead he agreed, and the four of us, with the help of some crewmen, carried the limp body up into the sunlight. I laid a pallet for him near the prow, where he would not be tripped over by the sailors, and when he was settled I wiped the sweat from his forehead and waved the brothers away, for I wished him to be free of their pious mummery, at least until he was beyond its reach.

The wind was blowing away the stink of sickness and fouled wounds, and in the sunlight I noticed that the bruising on the Captain's face was fading a little. I bent down and whispered in his ear.

'Breathe, dear Master, breathe in the air. The gulls are wheeling, the sea is running, and we are sailing west. Breathe.'

I called for wine and, dipping my finger in it, wet his lips. The sun crept around and fell upon him, warming the black cloak with which I had draped his body. I hardly took my eyes from him, for I was expecting at any moment to see his chest cease its shallow heaving. But instead of failing, his breath began to steady and his chest to rise more strongly, until I could hear the air passing between his lips. Not daring to hope myself, I beckoned Michael over, and he bent down and searched the Captains face.

'The fever has broken’ he said. 'That is very good. Keep watch, and give him wine if he will take it’

I raised his head and trickled a thread of wine between his teeth, but too much, for he spluttered and gagged. And then he opened his eyes.

'Petroc’ he murmured. 'Do not say a word to .. ‘

‘You are safe, Master’ I told him, tears welling up in my eyes. ‘You are on a ship bound for Italy. We found you on Stampalia’

'The Venetian .. ‘

'I know. I worked it out, too late of course. Do not worry: I have the letter, and ... and some other things’

Things?' said the Captain, and he tilted his head ever so slightly. I held the cup to his lips, and after he had drunk - a proper draught this time - he gave me a weak smile. 'Things, do you say?'

'I do say. Now sleep, sir, for you must be well soon. I cannot be expected to treat with kings and emperors by myself, can I?'

He smiled again and laid his head down, and watched the clouds for a while before drifting into a wholesome sleep. And I fell asleep too, like a dog, my head on his chest. When I awoke it was evening, and Letice was tucking a fur blanket around me.

'How is he?' I gasped, for I had been having dark dreams. 'He is well. He took some gruel, and now he sleeps’ she told me, pushing me down firmly. 'Between you and Master Scotus you have cured him, I think.'

'He cured himself,' I said, closing my eyes in relief. I felt her lie down beside me. She stretched out, close enough that our bodies did not touch, but I could feel her there.

Well, Master Dog, you are a physician as well,' she said softly.

'As well as what?'

'Oh: thief, murderer, priest - I mean
monk
- papal envoy...'

'How do you know about that?' I demanded, sitting bolt upright. She did not move, but grinned up at me.

'I was laying you down, and your chest crinkled and crackled,' she said. Thought there was something amiss, but instead I found a letter with
a fucking great lead seal!
She whispered the last words, and her smile widened, and grew even wider as I slapped my hand to my breast and felt the reassuring weight of the papal bull.

'Listen, Petroc,' she said, her smile fading. When your Captain wakes up - I mean properly - there will be a deal of explaining to do, and it seems quite likely that a certain girl from London might get slung over the rail; and I can't say as I'd blame anybody for doing it. But I'd rather make it to dry land alive. So suppose we explain things to each other first. I liked your Captain asleep, but awake?' She peered up at me, searchingly.

What do you mean?' I said, looking down at her.

'I mean, you know half of what is happening, and half of why. I might know the rest. We can put it all together, and see if your master feels like being kind to his enemy's once, but now repentant, tart.'

'Go on,' I said.

Well, Querini and the emperor.
You
go on.'

'Very well. My best guess is that Querini - he's a banker, is he not? - holds the empire's notes, and that was his way in: suck Constantinople dry, and give the husk to the Republic. They'd certainly make him Doge for that.'

'Oh, fuck. He's far more clever than that,' said Letice, shaking a finger. 'He helped the Regent mortgage himself away, but to other bankers - actually, to the Republic itself. He doesn't carry any of the risk.'

'But then, what of the Crown?' I asked. You mean, he's just doing the Republic a favour? He's simply a patriot?'

'Ha! It works! The scheme works!' she crowed. 'Querini the Selfless - the martyr, perhaps?'

'Very well, then,' I said, feeling mocked. Was that worth all those lives? My friend Horst? And Rollo, to say nothing of Fulk de Grez and the poor fellow in Spoleto - did they all die to advance Querini's selflessness?'

'Don't be a twat,' she told me, not unkindly. 'Constantinople - the whole of Greece. The trade routes, Petroc. The bloody trade routes. Querini will place the Republic's greedy fingers on the vein which pumps in all the silk, all the pepper, the ginger...'

Well, they'd make him. Doge, all right,' I said, glumly. I lay down again, and sighed, gazing up at the mackerel sky, stained orange by the setting sun. "The Regent's little debt is a pittance, isn't it? A pinch of salt to be thrown over the shoulder. Thirteen thousand livres - not much, is it, what is the commission on that, do you think? And how much is the damned Crown worth anyway?' I knew what I had done the instant the words left me, but I could not take them back. Screwing up my eyes, I cursed silently.

'To whom?' said Letice, turning to me. I felt her breath upon my ear.

To ... to Querini it's plainly worth thirteen thousand livres, and to the Regent, the same. Poor bloody Baldwin would probably be glad of five thousand - less. He is already robbing church roofs, so ... Louis will be disappointed, though.'

Won't he just?' said Letice, thoughtfully.

I was suddenly attacked, and that is not too strong a word, by a memory. The Captain and I were sitting before Pope Gregory, and he was cackling like a punctured bellows as he handed us our wax-spattered bulls.

‘I am certain that Our Lord will provide,' he had said. And then I thought of Baldwin in his mean lodgings in Rome, and the famished look that had tightened his young face when he spoke of his cousin, the King of France.

'Does Nicholas know about Louis?' I asked, wincing in anticipation.

'Of course. The Regent told him. We arrived after you, remember?'

What, exactly, did he tell him?'

'That Louis was going to give Baldwin a present of gold in return for the Crown.'

'How much gold did the Regent mention, do you think?'

‘I don't know. But thirteen thousand pounds of gold is an awful lot of money, don't you think?'

'Thirteen thousand?' I breathed.

'That is what Querini loaned the empire. I expect Nicholas will ask for that, and the same again for his pains. Twenty-six thousand pounds -
pounds! -
of French gold! Can you even imagine such a sum?' She sighed. That Brother Andrew seemed quite shocked when I told him.'

‘You told Brother Andrew,' I said, as calmly as I could.

'Of course. I mean, he asked me. That was why he came all this way, wasn't it? 'Course he wanted to know. He didn't bat an eyelid, though. Made some pious little remark when I brought up the commission, but nothing else.'

‘You were right, Letice’ I said after a long silence. That will help. I do not think anyone will pitch you overboard. You will like Captain de Montalhac. I think, as a matter of fact, he is going to like you.'

I felt the pressure of her shoulder against mine through the fur rug. I suddenly felt full of light and even, although I would not have dared name it, hope. Should I reach out and take her in my arms, I asked myself? I should, I certainly should. And, shutting my eyes to ponder upon how I should begin, I fell asleep.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

W

inter sailing is harsh, even as a passenger, and although we had escaped until then, four days out of Stampalia the winds turned strong and icy. The Greek Emperor had his galleys out, preying on Frankish ships. Not until we had passed through the Cyclades did that danger pass, although we were running from the bitter north winds, and beating against them when we turned up into the Adriatic. It was passing miserable, for once again I could not join the crew, but needs must endure endless boredom. Letice might have been an entertaining companion, but she was ill most days, despite all her boasting, for, like James of Paris, she was afflicted by a dreadful seasickness. She kept to herself, wrapped in fur cloak and misery. I was not so callous that I did not understand how she felt, at least somewhat: she had come from nothing, and as far as she knew had returned there. She could not bring herself entirely to trust the Captain, no matter how much I tried to reassure her, and despite all his friendly advances. To her he must have been one more powerful man enmeshed in schemes that did not include her - or worse, that did.

She was often barely civil to me. When she was feeling less poorly we conducted ourselves as friendly acquaintances, and when she was suffering I gave her as wide a berth as I could. That was in a way not hard, because she had grown very cold and inward; but I could not forget how she had first stirred me, that morning in Rome, for as much as I distrusted her, the sight of her milk-white skin, and the soft pout of her upper lip made my mouth dry whenever I beheld her.

Letice Londeneyse did not need me, that was plain. No doubt she needed only herself. And there was the fact, as plain and dismal as a corpse laid out on a kitchen table, that she had had a hand in the death of a friend and of three other men, in the short time since I had first seen her. She had not held the knife that killed Horst, I could admit that much; but she had been in Foligno that night, as she had been in Spoleto. And I had seen with my own eyes how she had put an end to Dardi, I knew she was capable of it. And when I pondered this, I could only say that I had done such things as well: I had killed men who had had friends ... but such thoughts were profitless, and I had long since taught myself not to tread that path lest it lead to melancholy.

The Captain began to recover in earnest, although it was another week before Andrew of Longjumeau would let him rise. Andrew had taken over his care, for soon after we had passed Thira, Mesarites, who had hardly stirred from the cabin which he shared with the ship's master and with Doctor Scot, fell ill. At first Michael thought it was no more than the seasickness that had afflicted the others, but on the second day of his illness, when I went to offer my sympathies, I found the old man shockingly changed. He seemed to have lost pounds of weight, his eyes were sunken and his cheeks had fallen in. His gaze darted about, confused, and his lips were caught in a quivering moue. A silver trail of spittle crept across his silvery beard.

What ails him?' I whispered to Michael, although I need not have, for the old Greek seemed not to hear anything.

'He has suffered an apoplexy’ he answered, bluntly. 'It happened in his sleep. I feared that all the disorder that has befallen him might do harm, and so it has’ He bowed his head, and for the first time Michael Scotus, so astute in divining the emotions of others, showed his own.

'Do not blame yourself, Doctor’ I told him. 'It was his great desire to make this journey. To achieve his great work - that is so, is it not?'

Michael nodded. 'It is so. But I came and plucked him from his family. He would have died, at least, in a Greek bed. As it is .. ‘

'He will die, then’

'Alas. All his higher functions have been destroyed by the apoplexy. He cannot eat or drink. The ancients called it a stroke of God's hand, but I think it is a crueller touch than that’

'Amen’ I muttered, but I was remembering Anna's death throes. Why should God's touch not be cruel? I had seen nothing to the contrary.

I went and searched the old man's face, seeking in its all but abandoned furrows a trace of - what? The old Greece, the fallen empire that had been, whose spirit had run so hot in Anna's blood? I found nothing but the desolation of Constantinople as she had become, for the skull was plain to see under its veil of failing skin. I pressed Anna's ring to his lips, and kissed his forehead. That night, he died while Michael slept at his side.

The day after that, a foul storm swept off the Morea and tore our sail to shreds. We put in at Cerigo to bury Nicholas, and the man who had been Exarch of all Asia was laid in the crypt of the half-ruined Orthodox church, while an awestruck country priest sung him to his rest. We lingered to make good the damage, and then another storm blew up and kept us in port for another week. We did not leave Cerigo until the middle of February, and then it was slow, miserable sailing against icy winds. We were forced to take shelter at Zante, and then the threat of a raiding party of John Vatatzes' ships sent the master running for Patra. And so it was not until the second week of March that we dared set out across the narrow waters of the Adriatic to Italy.

In the long weeks that intervened, Michael Scot had become withdrawn, and ever more wrapped up in his thoughts. He blamed himself for the death of his friend, I guessed, and mourned the old man who would never see his dream, of healing the great schism between Greek and Latin, fulfilled. And he had received some news at Cerigo from a ship's captain from Brindisi. What it was I did not ask, but it upset him greatly. James of Paris and Letice were rendered barely human by seasickness, as I have said, and Andrew of Longjumeau fell to nursing his friend. Only the Captain strengthened while the others declined, and soon, despite the misfortunes and setbacks that battered themselves against the
Seynt Victor,
he was up and about, weak but with the life slowly coming back into him, and he and I passed most of our time together.

He told me what had befallen him on leaving Constantinople.

'They set upon me,' he said, 'and beat me insensible. When I awoke I was bound, and soon I was passed over to Nicholas Querini's ship. Querini, whom I counted as a neighbour and an acquaintance in Venice, gloated over me, and tormented me with insinuations and threats until we came to his fortress.'

There he had been starved and tortured by a man who fitted the description of Facio. They had hung him by the wrist from the ceiling, and flogged him, and doused him with icy water.

'They wanted the letter,' he said. 'The pope's letter. I said I did not have it, for I did not. Bravery had nothing to do with it: I told them the truth. They left me there, for some other man was coming to put me to the question, someone they promised was far more terrible and merciless than they’

'Dardi’ I told him. And I recounted what had taken place in the Pharos Chapel, how Letice had killed Dardi and how we had struggled to heave his fat carcass out of the window. The Captain took some grim amusement at that. I knew he was all but overcome with curiosity as to what I had brought out of the chapel, but we could not be open about that. My oilskin pack was locked in a chest in the master’s private hold, and I had bought the only key from him. As we waited for night to fall and the others to go to sleep, I told him about the girl, and how I trusted her despite myself.

'She is hungry’ said the Captain. 'Someone or something will be consumed before she is whole again - take care it is not you’

'She has had her chances’ I answered. 'I do not think it will be me’

That night - it was the night before we came to Cerigo, and the seas were running high and fierce - we stole into the master's hold. The ship was pitching madly, but we were both used to such things, and when I had hung our lantern from the ceiling I took out the key, opened the chest I had bought, and pulled out my pack. The Captain watched, rapt and lupine, as I undid the ties and pulled out the contents one piece at a time. First, the broken spearhead.

'The Spear of Longinus’ I intoned, holding it out. There were two pieces, and Baldwin's list only mentioned a spear set in an icon - so I took this one.'

You did well’ said the Captain softly, turning the lozenge of metal over in his hands.

‘I thought I was going to have to fight with it’ I told him, reaching into the pack again. What would that have done, to shed blood with the holy Lance?'

The Captain shook his head and began to wrap the spearhead up again. We are in a realm that even I had never quite dared to imagine’ he said. 'As to their power - their metaphysical power, I mean - they have none. But as things, as gross matter, they can change the world. What is next?'

Next were the Sandals, which the Captain examined with an amused look upon his scabbed and bruised face. 'Dear oh dear’ he muttered. 'Could they not have done better than this?' But he nodded when I produced the authenticating papers. 'They are official, then: marvellous. We shall copy these, of course, and then go into the cobblers trade. Do you think Gilles would care to turn sandal-maker?'

I laughed, for it was a merry thought, and we had need of such. 'Now this’ I said, 'requires a deal of care.' I opened the flat golden case that held the Robe of the Virgin. 'The
Maphorion
of the
Theotokos?
I said. The Captain held out his hands, and I placed the case on them and opened it. He bent his head towards the faded cloth.

'This accords with all that I have read’ he whispered, carefully examining the folds. 'It is ... I feel strange saying this, but did you know, Patch, that this is the talisman of Constantinople? The Virgin's veil protected the city. Emperors carried it as a standard into battle. What will happen to the city now that it is gone?'

I could not quite tell if he were serious, so I said, with care, 'The city's talismans have failed her, sir. But you do not mean that I should have left it be?'

'No, no’ he said. 'Nevertheless it is strange that you and I are here in this reeking ship's hold with the very thing that once girded the Empire of Rome itself with ... with magic'

'I hesitate to show you what is left’ I said, 'if we are going to talk of magic. For there is something that I do not understand. Perhaps we should wait’

'I am sorry, Patch,' said the Captain. 'I am not quite myself yet. You know that I have no belief in magic, nor in miracles. No, it is their power over the minds and hearts of men that I find strange and terrible, and this thing ...' he handed back the robe, 'has kept an empire in its thrall. Now, what is it you have to show me?'

I said nothing, but took out the plain wooden box and set it on top of the chest. Opening it, I held my breath, reached in, and took hold of the uppermost two corners of the cloth that lay folded within. As I lifted, the watery, shimmering face I had beheld in the Pharos Chapel slowly rose into view from the shadows of the box. The Captain gasped.

‘I think this is the
Mandylion
of Edessa,' I said, and my words fell flat and lifeless about me. The Captain had bent forward and was gazing at the cloth, mouth open. For an instant I thought that he too had been stroked by the hand of God, but then he tore his gaze away.

'How did you find this?' he hissed. I told him. And as there did not seem any point in avoiding it, I also told him of Mesarites, and his great and marvellous scheme to heal the wounds of Christendom.

'Stand up,' said the Captain, suddenly. I was surprised, and made to lower the cloth back into its box, but the Captain stopped me. 'No, keep hold of it. Raise it up.' Obediently I stood, and drew the cloth up with me until it hung before me, the face - if face it was - level with my own. But no, it was not the face. I was looking at the imprint or the stain of hair, and only then did I understand that the cloth I held was folded over, and I held the fold between my fingers. I was looking at the terribly faint image of a man's back. It was translucent, the cloth, and even in the dim lantern-glow

I could see the Captain behind it, examining every inch.

What is it? What do you see?' I demanded, when I could bear it no longer. The dark suggestion of eyes in the face was beginning to oppress me.

You are right’ said the Captain at last. 'This is the
Mandylion.
I wish I could have talked with Mesarites, for we might have understood each other despite ..He did not finish, and did not need to. The heretic and the schismatic contemplating a thing I could find no name for: what strange discourse would have been born from such a meeting?

What is it?' I asked again. It is not a painting’ I offered, 'but is it woven into the cloth? It frightened me when I found it, and I did not want to take it’

'But you did’ said the Captain, 'and perhaps you will never do so great a thing again. Here’ he added, and took hold of the cloth himself. 'Let me hold it for you.'

I went round into the light and stood where the Captain had been, facing the cloth. I licked my dry lips and forced myself to stare. It was a piece of yellowed flax that I beheld, about a yard's width, and upon it was painted - I had to say painted, for I could find no other explanation that I could give words to - the image of a naked man with hair that curled to his shoulders and a full beard, his hands crossed modestly over his shame. There were dark stains on the cloth, darker than the image itself, around the head, in the side and upon the left wrist. I instinctively looked down, but the feet were still folded.

'De Clari was right’ muttered the Captain. 'And Mesarites - of course, Mesarites. If only he ... no matter. "The Shroud in which Our Lord had been wrapped, which every Friday raised itself upright so one could see the figure of Our Lord on it" - that is what de Clari wrote of what he found in 1204’

'This must be it’ I stammered. 'Does that mean ..’ 'That it is real? How can it be? But I cannot tell how it was done. It is not paint’

'Is it branded in some way?' I said, squinting reluctantly at the blank-eyed face. 'It is horrible’ I confessed with a shiver of revulsion. As if I had given him some signal, the Captain lowered the cloth carefully into its box and hastily shut the lid.